The Spider and the Sociopath
by Lord Youko
Summary: On the rooftop, Sherlock needs Moriarty to call off the hits on his friends. And he knows just the way to make him do it. SLASH dom!Sherlock, sub!Moriarty, dark!Sherlock


_**Story: The Spider and the Sociopath**_

_**Summary:**_ On the rooftop, Sherlock needs Moriarty to call off the hits on his friends. And he knows just the way to make him do it. SLASH dom!Sherlock, sub!Moriarty, dark!Sherlock BDSM, pet play.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1 – There's Always Something<strong>

_The Spider as an Artist  
>Has never been employed -<br>Though his surpassing Merit  
>Is freely certified<em>

_By every Broom and Bridget  
>Throughout a Christian Land -<br>Neglected Son of Genius  
>I take thee by the Hand -<em>

_Emily Dickinson_

_._

_._

When Jim Moriarty first heard of Sherlock Holmes, he wanted to play with him. So he set out to learn all that he could about Sherlock Holmes, and then he wanted to break him.

When he learned that he couldn't, he decided to kill him. Because Sherlock is a genius (like Jim), and he's dark (like Jim) and he doesn't like rules (like Jim), but he's still allowed in the world, not locked away in a room with padded walls (like Jim). More, he's welcome, sought after, lauded.

The world doesn't know the meaning of genius, the world doesn't like genius, will forgive everything except genius. Moriarty knows this because he is a genius and what did that ever get him from the world? They tried to treat him like he was ordinary. They tried to break him, make him disappear until Jim made sure they couldn't. So what makes Sherlock Holmes so special? How _dare_ he gain everything that was denied to Jim?

"You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me," Jim is panting, from Sherlock's assault on him (and nothing more, he tells himself). "Nothing's gonna keep them from pulling the trigger."

Now it's not Sherlock he wants to kill, but everybody _else_ - everyone who has touched Sherlock, talked to Sherlock, _breathed the same air as Sherlock, _starting with his pet, John Watson and the two others. They are holding Sherlock back, holding back his brilliance, his wildness, his darkness; if only they were dead, he would realise that Jim is really the only one in the world that can understand him, complement him, let him be _him._

And when Sherlock asks for one moment of privacy (begs for it), Jim thinks, with something that feels dangerously close to disappointment, that maybe he's won. Maybe the other really is beaten. Searching Sherlock's eyes, of course tells him nothing, and all he can do is to step back and watch, as the object of his obsession and his lust, kills himself. It would be poetic if it didn't make him want to sob like a baby. He never intended for Sherlock to die. Because a sociopath doesn't sacrifice himself for others; Sherlock Holmes doesn't give his life for _anyone_. But maybe Jim has been wrong, and Sherlock really is on the side of the angels.

Then Sherlock is laughing, and Jim spins around. "_What?_ What is it, what did I miss?" His eyes are fluttering like butterflies. Maybe, just maybe Sherlock has got it, even though Moriarty doesn't think even Sherlock Holmes is as smart as all that. But maybe, for once, the Gods were on his side, and Sherlock has realised that all he has to do is give up, give in to Jim Moriarty (if he has Sherlock in exchange, _has him_, it might just be enough).

When Sherlock explains what he's got, the bottom drops out of Jim's stomach; Sherlock thinks he can _make him_ tell him to code that will spare his friends' lives, the code that will once again allow Sherlock to walk away from him.

"Sherlock, your big brother and _all _the king's horses," sing songs Jim, "couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to do. What makes you think you can?"

"You're forgetting, I am not my brother," Sherlock says. "I am_ you_. Prepared to do anything."

The words sound so right, sound like the exact thing Jim has been feeling, wanting, all along. But as much as they sound, right, they don't _feel_ right and there's a horrific abyss opening up inside of him. And Jim wants to laugh because that's the only time he known Sherlock to be completely, spectacularly wrong. _Me_, Jim thinks hysterically_. He thinks he's me. Sherlock Holmes thinks he is me. _

Nothing about Sherlock is him; from that public school accent, to his taste, to those fingers, to the look in his eyes, Sherlock Holmes is not Jim Moriarty and if he doesn't know that, then Jim has only one way out and he really, _really_ didn't want to die today.

But he has to, because as long as he's alive, Sherlock can torture the truth out of him, can save his friends. (And Moriarty no longer doubts that he can; even Mycroft's eyes aren't this cold.) But it's not the torture Jim wants to escape but the failure. Jim Moriarty hasn't lost to someone since he became Jim Moriarty, and he doesn't plan on that changing. Because Jim Moriarty doesn't fail. Jim Moriarty doesn't lose.

Sherlock Holmes has been such a delicious diversion, till he was more, till he had gotten under Jim's skin with the way he won without effort, the haughty tilt of his chin, the way he looked down on everyone, the way the world bowed to him. He has honestly looked forward to the look of agony and defeat in Sherlock's eyes as he watched his only friends gunned down, till he was left alone in the world (just like Jim). Then he would be raw and maybe a little unhinged (just like Jim) and he and Jim would together own the world.

But that is not to be, it seems, and John wonders why his chest hurts at the thought. The thought of dying is comparatively less painful.

"Thank you," he whispers, and Sherlock draws back, surprised. Moriarty's voice is shaking, his eyes blinking furiously. "You're not ordinary. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes."

Jim Moriarty is about to cry, and Sherlock _gets it._

_Stupid_, Sherlock curses himself and Sherlock's fingers are in Moriarty's hair and Jim gasps, almost dangling in the taller man's grasp.

"There's always something," Sherlock whispers, staring down at those wide, teary eyes, "You are not me. You are _mine_." There is a vicious look in Sherlock's eyes.

Jim Moriarty's breath stutters, as does his hand on the trigger of his gun. "Wh-what..."

"You will call off the hits because _I want you to_."

Jim licks his suddenly dry lips but he manages to grin. "No, I won't," he singsongs.

Sherlock shoves his head down violently and Jim hisses in pain as his knees hit the concrete floor hard.

"Who are you to say no to me?" Sherlock whispers and Jim gapes up at the taller man, blinded by the sun that is directly in his eyes.

Sherlock smiles contemptuously, like the great Jim Moriarty is nothing but dirt under his very expensive boot, and Jim shivers. "This was the point, wasn't it, Jim? To provoke me, to get my attention."

Jim is pulled close suddenly and those all-seeing eyes are trained on him and it's like being blinded by the sun all over again. "Everything you have ever done has been for scraps of my attention."

Jim clenches his teeth and his mouth is a hard, angry line. Of course it wasn't. Moriarty knows the futility of begging for attention from someone who would never give it. He's been in and out of enough foster homes. Insane, he may be, but he was not a dog, dammit! The point of all of this really was to beat Sherlock, to burn him, to kill him. (That his cock is half hard right now, and his heart is pounding in a way it never did even when he was wearing England's sceptre and crown, is irrelevant.) Jim Moriarty is nobody's dog! His hand brushes over the gun in his coat pocket.

But he hesitates and Sherlock has plucked the gun out and taken it out of his reach before he can so much as blinked.

"You were waiting for me to put you in your place, weren't you?" Sherlock asks. "Waiting for what those imbeciles at Scotland Yard could never do."

"My place, eh?" Jim asks, a little dazedly. In this position, he is eye level with Sherlock's crotch.

This is familiar, being on his knees before a man who thinks he's in charge because he has his cock in Jim's mouth. He's been in enough foster homes to be familiar with that. Moriarty smirks and begins to undo Sherlock's belt.

He is slapped so hard, his legs crumple under him and he can feel gravel under his cheek. Before he can so much as push himself up, Sherlock's boot is on the side of his face, grinding his face into the concrete.

"Your place, Jim, at my feet," Sherlock murmurs and Jim groans, a shock of lust running through his body.

"Your place, on your knees before me, your head under my boot, your place as my _bitch_," Sherlock hisses viciously, boot grinding on Jim's cheek.

"Now call off the hits and I may let you clean these with your tongue when we get home."

Now Sherlock's boot is under Jim's chin as his face is turned over and Jim can't take his eyes off the light layer of dust on the black leather.

_Clean these with your tongue when we get home._

Jim trembles as he stares up at Sherlock.

"...home?"

Sherlock smiles coolly. "You've won, Jim. You worked so very hard to get an owner, you've finally convinced me to keep you." Sherlock's cold eyes sweep over his body. "We will see if you are worthy."

_Of serving me_.

Jim closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing.

* * *

><p>"<em>On the rooftop. You know which one. Come immediately." –SH.<em>

When John arrives, Sherlock is calmly enjoying the view from the ledge and Jim Moriarty is sitting on the floor, speaking in a low voice into a cellphone.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Watson asks, walking up to him, glancing furtively at Moriarty.

"I'm fine," Sherlock says without turning around. "Call Lestrade."

John freezes, takes a deep breath. "You made me come all the way up here just so you could use my cellphone?"

Sherlock turns towards him with a look on his face that says he doesn't see anything wrong with that. "Jim is using mine."

"So you couldn't – he's _Jim_ now?" John asks incredulously. "Since when are you two on a first name basis?"

Sherlock gives him a look that says, _Are you an idiot?_

"We're not."

"But you just – " John cuts himself off and sighs. "Nevermind." His eyes shift to Moriarty, who doesn't seem the least bit interested in the fact that the police are to be sent for.

"Have you convinced him to confess or something?" John asks.

Sherlock quirks a half-smile that John doesn't know the meaning of. "Something like that."

"You want to do _what _with him?" Inspector Lestrade asks, gaping from Sherlock to Moriarty. The latter is sitting lazily on the floor observing the proceedings serenely, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. There's a bruise forming on one side of his face and there's gravel stuck to the other.

"Jim Moriarty is wanted for crimes against the country! You can't just decide you want him as a _pet_," Lestrade spits the last word out. "And that isn't even the point! You can't keep people as pets! This is England, not some third world sultanate. You can't keep a human being as a pet. It's – it's illegal."

"It's hardly illegal if he consents, Inspector," Sherlock says patiently.

Lestrade looks like he's about to explode. "Of course he would consent to getting away with murder scott free!"

Sherlock smiles again and John begins to suspect he's missed something very important here. "He won't be getting away with anything. I will ensure that he's appropriately..._punished._"

Sherlock's eyes bore into Jim's as he says the word and the latter swallows hard.

"Yes, inspector," Moriarty pipes up helpfully. "Sherlock stands a much better chance of keeping me prisoner than Scotland Yard."

Lestrade's mouth falls open. "But – but I still have to arrest him! I can't – "

"You will find that you can," Sherlock says, handling Lestrade his cell phone. Lestrade glares daggers at him for a moment before snatching it and turning away to whisper furiously into it.

John looks from Jim to Sherlock, trying to figure out just what is going on here. He can hear snatches of "But Mycroft-!" and "Your brother is-!" every few seconds.

"You can take him," Lestrade says defeatedly, handing the phone back to Sherlock, face slightly pink. Sherlock notes the colour of his face, his quick breathing, his dilated pupils, with a small smile and pockets his phone quietly.

"If it wasn't to have him arrested, why did you call me here?" Lestrade asks irritably.

"Because I will need to borrow your handcuffs, Inspector," Sherlock answers, glancing expectantly at the man's coat pocket.

Lestrade's mouth falls open. "Borrow-?"

"Just until I get my own," Sherlock assures him.

Lestrade grits his teeth. "And I'm to just hand over the keys to police issue handcuffs to civilians now, am I?"

"Of course not," Sherlock replies, sounding offended. "I won't be needing the key."

* * *

><p>"So where are we supposed to keep him?" John asks once they're down, hailing a cab. Jim is walking amicably behind them, seeming not at all put out by having his hands cuffed behind him.<p>

"At 221B, of course," Sherlock answers as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. He hails a cab and gestures for Jim to get in before getting in himself. John is left to get in beside the driver. Not bothering to ask, John gives the cabbie their home address.

"Oh and we'll need to stop by the pet store first," Sherlock says, and Jim shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying not to grin.

* * *

><p>AN: Err...so yes, I got a little distracted from my Inuyasha fics. Only because Jim is so cute and wouldn't be left alone till I wrote this.I have plans of making this into a hardcore BDSM story with the Master/pet theme and Jim being his naughty, evil, masochistic self. Review! And tell me what you think.


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